sparkling.
“Trent!”
When she cried out, her orgasm triggered
Trent’s own. He gave a final, hard thrust and came,
throbbing inside her, his head dropping to her neck,
as he followed her into ecstasy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“NO! NOT NOW,” Meckenzie ranted as the
battered CRX coughed, sputtered and died. The car
coasted onto the gravel shoulder of the two-lane
road, braking to a smoldering stop. In the twilight,
and through the belching smoke, Meckenzie read
the big, official sign: ROAD ENDS 3 MILES.
“So, this is where it all ends,” Meckenzie
muttered. “Good to know.”
She shoved open the door and heaved her tired
butt out of the tiny car. She was exhausted. There
was nothing and no one nearby. Her stomach
growled; a reminder that her last meal had been a
granola bar and tepid bottled water. Ten hours ago.
She’d kill for a decent breakfast.
Voluminous gray clouds rippled across the
purple sky, threatening one helluva storm. A crisp
breeze brought with it a reminder that winter could
show up at any time.
She blew out a breath and leaned against the
car staring at an endless field. Not a tree or cow in
sight. The Sooner State sure seemed filled with a
whole lot of nothing.
“May I help you, mademoiselle ?”
The French-accented male voice startled her.
Meckenzie took a moment to gather her composure.
She hadn’t expected a welcoming committee so
soon. She hoped it was a Broken Heart citizen.
After all, someone out to do her harm wouldn’t
necessarily waltz up and announce himself.
Warily, Meckenzie squared her jaw and turned.
She scowled at a very tall, very buff, very
gorgeous man with moonlight hair and unnaturally
gold eyes. He was pale—like a vampire would be.
He wore a jeweled blue dress shirt tucked into
black pants. His shoes were also black—Giorgio
Brutini dress boots, if Meckenzie wasn’t mistaken.
Hmm. No bike and no car. Where had he come
from? And how had he snuck up on her?
Vampire?
He was pale—like a vampire would be. But
there was that whole breathing thing. Unless he
was taking breaths to psych her out, and she
doubted that, then he was using his lung capacity.
So werewolf?
Shit. Did it matter?
He stared at her. Meckenzie stared back. She
was stubborn, but she was also practical. Her
“borrowed” car was kaput. She was starved and
weary. He was the only help for miles. And she’d
come all this way to get to Broken Heart. She was
walking a fine line between two paranormal
enemies. She just hoped she didn’t get burned in
the crossfire.
Finally, he said, “I’m Ren Marchand.”
“Meckenzie,” she said.
“Meckenzie…?”
“Yeah.” Meckenzie ignored his hint for her last
name. “You’re one of the few people I’ve met who
pronounce it right.”
“It’s Gaelic,” he said. “Mec instead of Mac,
right? It means ‘daughter of a wise leader.’”
“That’s right. My mother had a sense of
humor.”
He waited, presumably for her to clarify her
last statement, but Meckenzie didn’t. The silence
went on as if he had the patience of the ages.
Maybe he did. Once again, Meckenzie gauged his
muscled build, warrior gaze, and designer clothes.
Patient, sure. And predatory. Meckenzie knew the
attitude well enough.
“I’d appreciate a lift into town,” Meckenzie
said.
“I can arrange a ride for you to Tulsa.” He
nodded toward the car. “I will make sure it is
repaired and returned to you.”
It wasn’t her car, so it didn’t matter if she got it
back. Meckenzie had planned to abandon it. “Look,
dude, I’m tired, and I’m hungry. The entire state of
Oklahoma is under construction, especially the
roads. I bet there’s a Motel 6 nearby, right? And a
Denny’s. Every town has a Denny’s.” C’mon,
c’mon. I know you’re from Broken Heart. Let me
in!
He offered no response. Instead he withdrew a
silver phone from a holder clipped to his belt loop,
flipped it open, and punched in a number.